Numb
by lark lavroc
Summary: Ryou doesn't know what reality is anymore. [BakuraRyou]


**Disclaimer** : I don't own anything. 

**Pairing**: Bakura/Ryou  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers**: Unless you have no clue who Bakura is... there ain't no spoilers ahead  
**Warnings**: Uh, angst and vague non-con?  
**Summary**: Ryou doesn't know what reality is anymore  
**Status**: Complete  
**   
Author's Notes** : Ah, the different pairings challenge fic for Kokoro no Yami Yahoo Group. I've never written Ryou as a central POV before, nor have I written Bakura/Ryou, so this was pretty interesting for me. I'm not sure I have both their voices down right, but I tried. 

Many thanks goes to **Jenn** for weeding out my mistakes and typos. 

Feedback and constructive criticism all welcome. 

_Completed: August 2005_

* * *

Numb 

_   
i. monday   
_

Ryou wakes up in a start, mouth dry and face flushed and muscles aching. He tries not to think of the where's and why's and how's that are associated with these aches and manages to sit up without wincing. There are bruises on his wrists -- he thinks they can't possibly be hand imprints, but then, what he thinks and what he sees are different things in his world. 

He gets up and pretends he sleeps with only his bare skin under the covers. He looks at his comfortably large blue t-shirt -- bought on a tired afternoon when he was looking for a winter coat, but found his perfect sleep-shirt -- and then he looks away. It hadn't been on the floor last night, but then, he supposes everything changes in the morning.   
_   
But not this much_, his mind whispers, and Ryou shivers. 

He quickly walks to the bathroom and locks his door. He doesn't look into the mirror.

* * *

_   
ii. tuesday_

Ryou wakes up. 

His eyes are itchy and his mouth aches and Ryou thinks he might have hurt his back. From what, he doesn't say. He sits up, slowly and carefully, and runs a hand down his spine; it feels okay, smooth and slightly bumpy like his ribs, but that's good. That's normal. 

What isn't normal though is the dark blue-ish colouring around his hips and -- he quickly retreats from his thoughts. Nothing new, nothing important, and _stop thinking_.   
_   
Please stop_, he thinks desperately to himself, and then shakes his head in disbelief when there's an answer.   
_   
No_. 

Ryou takes a shaky breath and exhales more calmly. He's not crazy, he's _not_, and all this will pass. Ryou just needs more time to get use to it. 

He goes to the bathroom quietly.

* * *

_   
iii._ _ wednesday   
_

Ryou wakes up slowly. His skin feels too tight for his body and his neck aches strangely; he doesn't bother not trying to think. He knows there's something going on. He knows something is happening to him, night after night after night. He knows what his aches mean; what the bruises, the bites, and his reddened skin are telling him. He knows there's something -- _someone_ -- doing this to him, but what he doesn't know is who. 

And how. 

Ryou has been very cautious lately. He's locked all his doors -- even his bedroom door -- and all his windows, and he's double checked them every night just before he goes to bed. What he wears now to sleep is a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, and pajama pants. What he's wearing in the morning is nothing. He's sure nobody could possibly have gotten into his room. He's sure he's not being followed home. 

He's sure of everything and nothing, because what he sees is different from what actually _is_, and Ryou doesn't know what's the matter with him. Having headaches is one thing, but losing large blocks of his time? Coming into awareness on a street he has never been to before? 

Ryou suspects he's going crazy. He even suspects that what's happening at night is related to his loss of time, but that isn't logical. It doesn't add up. 

And yet -- this is happening. This is _actually happening_. 

Ryou doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to think -- all this, and he's either going crazy or there's something else, _someone else_, that's at the centre of it. 

He wants to think that he isn't going insane, he really does, but he doesn't really trust himself not to be blind. 

He doesn't trust himself at all.

* * *

_   
iv. thursday   
_

It doesn't stop. No matter how cautious Ryou is, how carefully he sleeps, he still wakes up with aches and bruises and bite marks. It's the bite marks that make it -- more real. It's not as if Ryou couldn't tell normal aches from -- from what he wakes up with, but he can still deny it when dawn lights up his room. 

He wants to deny it. 

He just can't. Not when the marks betray his carefully constructed illusions. And now, he can't even say it's self-inflicted. 

He doesn't know which is worse: believing himself to be somehow _wrong_ in his head or believing himself to be haunted by something -- unseen. Unheard. Dangerous. 

Ryou shivers slightly and lets the blankets slide down to his waist. His skin feels too sensitive, too hot, but he doesn't think he has a fever. He probably doesn't. Still, it wouldn't hurt to check, and Ryou quietly stands to go to the bathroom. 

He pretends his hands aren't shaking when he reaches to lock his bathroom door, but again, his body betrays him. The slight tremor doesn't leave, despite Ryou's attempts at calming himself. He gives up part way through and decides _the hell with it_ in a sudden surge of anger and courage. He's been hiding for so long, he doesn't even know if he exists under this pale, well-used body. 

Time to find out, he thinks, rather bravely, but he hesitates. He stands still, hands rubbing arms to ward off a chill and avoids looking into his bathroom mirror. When he does -- finally, slowly, and excruciatingly -- he sees a stranger. It doesn't seem to surprise him. _

* * *

v. friday_

Ryou wakes up in small steps. 

First, he is aware of the smooth and soft sheets draping over his body, sliding sensuously along the ridges and dips of his skin. It is luxurious, and Ryou only wants to lie there absorbing the warmth and stillness. 

He blinks. The next thing he is aware of is the ghostly imprints of -- of -- he flushes. His lips are throbbing slightly and the inner skin of his thighs feel stretched -- taut and sensitive as he shifts against the sheets. 

And the third thing, probably the most important thing, he is aware of is that he doesn't mind. 

It's odd. It's baffling, but as Ryou sighs and sits up, noticing another less subtle ache, he realises that he doesn't really care. 

He should be bothered by it, if he could muster enough energy for resentment and fear, but it's as if everything's drained dry -- he doesn't care. He really doesn't. 

When he enters the bathroom, he doesn't look at the mirror. He knows what he'll see anyway.

* * *

_   
vi. saturday   
_

Ryou sleeps in. 

There's more sleep to catch up on than there used to be, but that doesn't deter Ryou. Nothing deters Ryou anymore. 

He supposes he should be more worried about that -- about his state of mind -- but he finds himself burying further into his pillow. 

Nothing deters Ryou anymore, not really. He's kind of glad about it actually.

* * *

_   
vii. sunday_

Ryou wakes up with a sigh. 

He's still tired and there are still marks on his skin, but by now, he's used to it. He's used to the sensitivity, the bruises, the aches and soreness that accompany him each morning, and better yet, he doesn't care. 

He's almost cheerfully lethargic, really, if one could still call him cheerful. More often than not, he's quiet. He's like a hallowed out shell, listening and wandering through his days almost passively while at nights he drags himself off to bed in exhaustion, not bothering to undress or lock his bedroom door. There's no point. 

It never stops, and Ryou has stopped trying to figure out the _why _ and _how_ of it. Ryou has stopped thinking about anything at all. 

When he gets up and enters his bathroom this morning, he greets the stranger looking back at him in the mirror with something almost like stale warmth. He doesn't try to pretend his reflection didn't smile dangerously back. 


End file.
